


Medicine

by refurinn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Greg cannot be held responsible for his actions, M/M, Mental Instability, Schizophrenia, this is angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-16
Updated: 2013-01-16
Packaged: 2017-11-25 16:38:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/640946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/refurinn/pseuds/refurinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft will do anything to protect Greg, even cover up murder.</p><p> <i>Mycroft knows that Greg is unable to hold on to happiness for any great length of time, but he had thought… he had thought perhaps Greg was content. Mycroft will try harder, in the future. He will find something to keep Greg better occupied.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Medicine

**Author's Note:**

> I apologise in advance. As mentioned previously, I have trouble returning to fics I've started and so, again, this was written in one sitting. I recently watched Rupert Graves' episode of Law & Order UK (s3e03), in which is character suffers from schizoaffective disorder and I shamelessly stole the idea. I had planned for a dark, possibly humerous serial killer fic but it's raining here and as such, this just turned out... sad. I may visit this again someday, try to write something with more plot. Criticism is welcome, and for that matter, so are prompts if anyone has any.

Mycroft notices the blood on the door handle and freezes. He hears the change in his breathing but finds himself powerless to correct it. He doesn't look behind him as he plucks the handkerchief from his pocket and rubs it rigorously over the handle. The driver has gone, no one one will have seen, it’s okay.

‘Greg,’ he calls when he steps inside. He takes a moment to calm himself, forces his brain not to jump to conclusions, not to think at all as he strips himself of scarf, coat and shoes. The gloves, he leaves on, handkerchief pinched between two fingers.

He puts his shoulders back, readies his composure. This is not the first time this has happened, unfortunately. He knows how to deal with this. He can do it again. He _will_ do it again, he’ll do anything it takes. If this even is the situation, he could be riling himself up for no reason. The blood could be the result of an abnormal accident, some other factor he is not taking into account. Greg has come home bloody before, after forays out into the city with Sherlock. Crime scenes that are still so endlessly fascinating to his brother, the police procedure that is fascinating to Greg. The job he was refused, because of… Well, because of.

Mycroft loves Greg. He does. He doesn’t love this, no, but he loves Greg. That is enough to overcome any eventuality. Mycroft breathes out slowly and continues down the hall to the living room.

Greg stares up at him from where he is cross-legged on the floor. He smiles, and Mycroft hates that he does that, at a time like this. Greg’s hands tremble uncertainly in the space between his lap and chin, before Mycroft watches horrified as he raises them to press over his mouth.

‘Greg, stop,’ Mycroft commands as the blood spreads across Greg’s skin. Greg opens his mouth to speak and Mycroft halts him urgently with an outstretched hand, coming to crouch in front of him. ‘Don’t speak, hold on, please don’t get any in your mouth.’

Greg clamps his lips shut and waits patiently as Mycroft cleans off what he can with the handkerchief. He takes Greg gently by the wrists and pushes his stained hands down to rest in Greg’s lap. He prays Greg will keep them there, on the fabric that is already ruined.

‘Where?’ Mycroft asks, settling down onto his knees. Greg bites his lip. His eyes stare without seeing. ‘Where?’ Mycroft asks again, and Greg looks sharply to his side, as though something has startled him. ‘I can’t clean it up if I don’t know where it happened, Greg,’ Mycroft urges, trying to be heard over whatever it is Greg is listening to. ‘You’ll go away if I don’t clean it up.’ He touches Greg’s shoulders.

‘I’m not a child,’ Greg snaps suddenly, and his face falls abruptly. He keens, pitching forward and doubling over until his head is pressed into Mycroft’s chest. He shakes and the keening grows louder. Mycroft brings his gloved hands up to Greg’s matted hair. It hasn’t been washed for some time.

He should have noticed. He placed his trust in a man who has no capacity to trust himself, who openly willed Mycroft not to trust him, and yet Mycroft still took his word that this would not happen again. He should have seen the signs. Greg has been jumpy, lately. Uneasy. Mycroft put it down to the stress of a new environment, of living closer to the city. It had been at Greg’s request but that under no circumstances meant he was mentally prepared for it. Mycroft should have seen, he _should_ have.

‘It’s not your fault,’ he says gently as Greg shakes against him. He spreads his palms, one against Greg’s neck, the other against his back, and applies a firm pressure. Greg’s hands come to clench painfully around Mycroft’s thighs. ‘It’s my fault,’ Mycroft assures him. ‘It’s me, it’s not you.’

Mycroft knows that Greg is unable to hold on to happiness for any great length of time, but he had thought… he had thought perhaps Greg was content. Mycroft will try harder, in the future. He will find something to keep Greg better occupied. He loves him. He does.

‘Greg,’ Mycroft begins, and his voice wavers, just slightly. ‘I know you don’t want to, but please, _please_ , take your medication again. For me. Please.’

Greg gasps out a ragged breath, something that almost sounds like an address, and slides his bloody hands up to clutch at Mycroft’s crisp, white shirt.

\--

Black shoes step in Mycroft’s vision, beneath the newspaper, and he lifts his gaze. He looks not at the subordinate, but past him to the entrance of the club where he can see his brother hovering impatiently. He waves the subordinate away, folds his newspaper and beckons for his brother to follow.

‘I know it was him,’ Sherlock says, not two feet into Mycroft’s office. The heavy door clicks back into place behind him.

‘I’m sure you do,’ Mycroft murmurs, taking a seat at his desk. He motions for Sherlock to do the same. ‘And who might we be referring to, this time?’ Sherlock stares, just above Mycroft’s eyes, and Mycroft feels too late the moisture beginning to prick his brow. He’s been caught out. ‘Ah,’ he says, slowly.

‘Are you still covering for him, Mycroft?’

‘It’s not…’ Mycroft's hand twitches, his tie suddenly feeling too tight. He should have been prepared for this, but he hasn’t been able to think properly lately. ‘It’s not him,’ he finishes lamely. Sherlock gives him a pointed look, eyebrows furrowed and mouth tight. ‘No,’ Mycroft cuts him off when his brother opens his mouth to speak. ‘Just… listen.’

He breathes out heavily, locks his fingers together so that they do not fidget. Sherlock sits perfectly still, but Mycroft cannot see his fingers under the desk. He is not sure, exactly, what emotion Sherlock feels toward the situation.

‘He doesn’t know,’ Mycroft tells him weakly. ‘He’s sick. Don’t tell me you haven’t worked that out in all the time you’ve spent with him.’

‘Schizoaffective disorder,’ Sherlock rattles off, as though this is an insignificant detail.

‘Yes.’ Mycroft steeples his fingers in front of his chin and bows his head. ‘He’s prone to manic depression, paranoid delusions, and hallucinations, unless he’s taking his medication,’ he says by rote, in the same detached voice that Greg adopts to recite it.

‘And he is prone to other things, also, as it turns out,’ Sherlock mutters.

‘I have never seen you care quite so strongly for the innocent public before now, brother,’ Mycroft says with a dark look that his brother returns. Mycroft’s posture falls, just slightly. ‘I see. It is not them you are concerned for.’ He pauses for a moment, relatively sure but always just a little uncertain when it comes to Sherlock. ‘You are concerned for my well being.’

‘I would not suit me for anything to become of you,’ Sherlock says, in a voice as close to sincere as Mycroft has ever heard. Mycroft shakes his head.

‘He does it for me. He is… unpredictable, but not toward me. I am not at risk.’

‘But he knew this would happen,’ Sherlock points out. ‘He stopped taking his medication.’

‘That is my fault. Do not blame him.’ Mycroft hesitates, then adds a, ‘please.’

‘Be careful.’ Sherlock does not look at him as he stands, not deigning to tuck the chair back under the desk. ‘I do enjoy his company,’ he says over his shoulder as he departs. Mycroft hears it for what it really is.

\--

‘I know,’ Greg says into the silence. The lights are off, but the moonlight is more than enough for Mycroft to see his face by. Greg’s fingers shift restlessly against the bed covers. ‘I know you think I’m not trying, but I am. I just get… so tired. I can’t think. The drugs…’

Mycroft has heard this before, but only once. He doesn’t expect Greg to remember. His Greg. He turns onto his side, grazes Greg’s arm with his fingertips.

‘They make me feel so… disorientated. Sometimes I can barely even speak. It’s so hard, everything is so… hazy, and I have no energy… I don’t even remember I’m alive, most days. Just… like I’m… sleepwalking…’ His breathe stutters and he stops. Mycroft finds his hand but Greg’s fingers grow limp in his hold. ‘I just want to be alive, again.’

Tears leak slowly from behind Greg’s closed eyes. His breathe catches again, rattles in his chest. Mycroft sits up, manually turns Greg’s body toward him and settles down again, pressing in close.

‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry I stopped taking them. I want to be everything I can for you and I can’t, I can’t do anything. I can barely dress most mornings and I forget, I forget what happens without them and those people… I didn’t mean to.’

‘It wasn’t you,’ Mycroft affirms, voice oddly loud. ‘The man who did that, he wasn’t you.’

‘But I let it—‘

‘No,’ Mycroft shushes him. ‘No, Greg, you didn’t know. You said so yourself, you don’t remember.’

Greg’s arms snake up between their bodies to press over his own eyes. His shoulders jerk as he cries.

‘I do,’ he says, muffled. ‘Sometimes. I get… flashes of their faces and I remember… I thought… I thought…’

Mycroft has heard this before, too. Just this last bit. It’s what he holds on to as he orders his men to intercept the crime scene and scrub the evidence away.

‘I thought they were going to kill you. I heard things, I was so convinced. I’d do anything in my power to protect you, but I… I’m… I’m a—‘

‘Stop.’ Mycroft kisses the hands that cover Greg’s face. ‘You’re not. You’re not a bad man. If someone wanted to hurt you, Greg, don’t you think I’d do anything to keep you safe?’

‘But they weren’t—‘

‘It doesn’t matter. It wasn’t you, Greg. But _him_ , the one who did it, I understand how he felt. Just settle down, now. It’s done, we don’t have to think about it anymore.’

‘But how can you live with it?’ Greg has stopped shaking, but his hands are adamant in shielding Mycroft from his sight.

Mycroft hates this question.

 _Does it bother you_ , Greg had asked once. Of course it does. Mycroft is not heartless, he is not one to watch innocent lives be taken and feel nothing, even if it is sometimes an order given by his own hand, for the good of the country. This is… something else, and Mycroft hates that Greg’s sickness manifests in this way, but he doesn’t hate the sickness. Would he love for it not to exist, yes, obviously, but it is a part of Greg and he loves Greg with everything he has. Greg is a good, kind hearted man. Greg loves sometimes with an intensity that frightens Mycroft. And so it bothers Mycroft that lives are needlessly wasted, and it invokes the fear of God in his heart that one day he might not be able to cover it up, but Mycroft can picture no alternative. He cannot begrudge something Greg has no control over, and he cannot feel disappointment in Greg trying to feel anything beyond the sluggish emotions he has on most days.

 _Does it bother you_ , Greg had asked once, and Mycroft had shaken his head. _That I am so weak, when you are so strong_ , Greg had continued.

The first time Mycroft had seen Greg, it had been as Greg was saving his life. He had appeared from nowhere, taken a knife in Mycroft’s place, subdued two men before unconsciousness took him. Mycroft had laid sprawled on the ground where he had fallen, heart in his throat, half-formed prayer frozen on his lips. Greg had spent four days in hospital and when Mycroft had come to thank him upon his release he had been greeted with an empty bed and a reluctantly given address from the suspicious woman at reception. Mycroft had spoken his first words to Greg standing in the middle of Greg’s fourteenth storey apartment, afraid to come any closer to the man who teetered on the other side of the balcony railing. He listened as Greg spoke, the struggles of daily life, the rejection from the police academy that had been the straw to break the camel’s back. Greg’s eyes had gleamed bright and clear as he stared at Mycroft, feet hanging half over the balcony's edge. To this day, Mycroft still does not know whether absence of the anti-psychotic drugs meant Greg was in his right mind or not. 

'Have dinner with me', Mycroft had pleaded, mind blank for everything but that single proposal. 'I won’t try to stop you tomorrow, but have dinner with me today.' 

Greg had looked surprised. 'You’ll regret it,' he had said softly, and climbed back over the railing.

 _Does it bother you, that I am so weak when you are so strong_ , Greg had asked once. _You are the strongest man I have ever met_ , Mycroft had meant to reply with. Instead came out a confession of a different sort.

'Because I love you,' he tells Greg.


End file.
